


somewhere i have never traveled

by misplacedmemory



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2019-09-30 03:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17215865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misplacedmemory/pseuds/misplacedmemory
Summary: 1950s England offers everything to the latest generation coming of age. Kathy Davies spends her summer vacation before the start of university with her McCartney relatives. She's a witness to the start of one of the greatest partnerships of all time, though if you ask her she thinks Paul could do better. She meets her match with John Lennon, and neither of them know what to make of the other.





	1. A Big Bang

“A big bang we called it. You were just so impatient to come into this world!”

Uncle Jim is washing the dishes with his starched apron tied around his protruding waist. Mum fed him too much cake when she was here. I sip my tea gingerly. Uncle Jim assumes everyone else takes their tea piping hot. Mum and I don’t, preferring the water warm enough to scarf down in one sitting. Our reasoning is that you never know what you’ll expect. There’s nothing to worry about here, though. It’s Scout Holidays Season at the McCartney house. Paul and Mike are leaving in a few weeks to Scout Camp. Not that Paul wants to go now. He’s too busy obsessing over his guitar.

“Your Mum kept a level head, despite the contractions. I’m sure Churchill would have been impressed by her display of stoicism.”

“Aye, Mum’s good at that,” I reply dryly.

Uncle Jim laughs, shaking his head. I wonder what other memories he’s tucked away. Does he know about any embarrassing stories? I’m sure Aunt Jin has plenty of those, and Aunt Millie is more than willing to give me the pictures. The water sloshing off of the plates sets the scene for the next part of my origin saga.

“Your father, he was flying over the Channel when you were born,” Uncle Jim continues, a hint of wistfulness as he’s trying to remember each detail of the event. “Someone had wired your father—I think it was Jin—about your birth. He was so adamant to see you. He couldn’t, the Germans were devastating the Continent and he was due to go there sooner or later. Oh, but he wouldn’t stop sending telegrams and letters. Always asking for updates, for your well-being, for an inkling you existed. I felt sorry for him, so I paid for a picture of you. You’re the only person in this family to have a picture as a baby, you know.”

Dad has this rarity tucked in an old journal from his RAF days, along with a picture of Mum when she was Ms. Florence McCartney. Mum keeps the other copy in a box laced with an old perfume no longer in existence. Neither of them likes talking about the war and their life during. Dad winces when talk of my infancy surfaces.

“And where were you, Uncle Jim? Huddled with Aunt Mary?” I know he wasn’t but he tells it so much better than Mum.

“Mary didn’t come until later, Kathy,” Uncle Jim clucks. Another clatter of dishes is heard from the sink, and another sigh from Uncle Jim is heard. He’s all thumbs when it comes to household chores. “I was volunteering to put out a fire. When it was all over I hear your Mum is in at Millie’s giving birth to you! Aunt Jin was there with her, I didn’t get there until the morning. Oh, but you were such a healthy baby despite your Mum’s disposition.”

The doctor says I’m healthier than most children my age. Everyone says I look good despite the beginnings. The war changed a lot of things, Mum says. Back then it was whether you were raised right, now it’s whether you were well off during the rationing. It could’ve been worse, I tell her. She doesn’t find that amusing.

“Three kilos. Healthier than most of the babes born that month, Jin was told. You were as red as a rooster’s comb until you were a few months old. We were all a tad bit worried if your father would disapprove of a ginger. Florrie said your father’s grandmother was from Cornwall, redder than the sunset and mistaken for Irish. Your hair’s not as bright anymore, although Florrie says it gets redder in the winter.”

Bill, the boy I left behind in London, often told me I had the hair color of pooled blood. The first time he described me in such terms was right after our first kiss. He wasn’t charmed by the dark red tones of my hair, preferring to tell his schoolmates I was a brown haired girl. I should have known it wouldn’t have ended well between us. But at the time I found it quite charming to make a quiet, reserved boy from the neighboring school so frightened.

“Millie and Jin dressed you well,” Uncle Jim continues. “Always with ribbons in your hair and a new dress every three months. You were wearing a new dress when I met Mary. A powder blue number that clashed with your hair but no one complained about it. You couldn’t when cotton was in little supply. But Mary loved that dress on you. She was holding you when the sirens forced us to go to the cellar.”

“And that’s when you charmed her?” Uncle Jim grimly smiles. He hates it when anyone teases him about Mary. Jim McCartney was a sensible man who did not seduce or charm ladies.

“We talked, that’s all.”

I smirk, “Mum says you made her laugh.”

“I had to! In a dank cellar wondering whether you’re going to die a fiery death calls for some laughter, I suppose.”

“Did you like her the first time you met her?”

“She was a sensible woman who knew what she wanted.”

“Mum says she had to get her number for you.” Aunt Jin clarified this over a cup of tea. It was Mum who told Jim to see if my beloved handkerchief was left behind, and it was at that moment Uncle Jim and the quiet Mary Mohin found a moment to plan for lunch in the coming days.

Uncle Jim huffed. He didn’t like Mum teasing him over Aunt Mary. Mum was over the moon when Uncle Jim pursued Aunt Mary. Uncle Jim was the family’s confirmed bachelor, destined to spend his days in a one-bedroom flat and visiting his siblings every Sunday for dinner. “Jim was such a ladies’ man, but he never took a woman seriously,” Mum explained. She had known Jim as a flirtatious, charming bandleader in her youth, but couldn’t comprehend why he never pursued a relationship with any young woman who was interested. By the time she had left and come back to Liverpool, Uncle Jim had settled nicely into his destiny—until Aunt Mary arrived.

“Your mum just likes to tease me. She’s always been a teaser,” Uncle Jim huffed as he wiped his hands on Jin’s tea towel. “Ever since she was little, she gave our Mum grief. Could you see who’s knockin’ on the door, love?”

Allerton was a quiet suburb that offered lush council houses and a sleepy atmosphere. Helen was horrified I spent my summers in the North of England. She was used to the actual North, the North where the accents become unintelligible and the houses are surrounded by coniferous forests. She could justify a holiday in isolation, but not one where the city’s bustle was within arm’s reach. She offered to take me to Paris this summer holiday. She was so certain I’d accept her invitation because who wouldn’t? A chance to go to Paris, to visit designers who’ll let you try on their latest collections, to see the excess of the French aristocracy so well preserved despite the riots. You’d be a fool to say no.

But here I was, in Uncle Jim’s council home in a sleepy suburb, wondering what poor French boy had missed out on kissing me, as I opened the door. It was one of Paul’s friends, Ivan. A kind child, the same age as Paul and even born on the same day. He flashed me a toothy grin before stammering a hello.

“I didn’t see you at the Fete.” Where had I been? I was on a train heading to Liverpool after my week’s stay with Gram. “Paul was expectin’ you to come see him play.”

“Play?”

“He’s gotten quite good playing the guitar.”

I smirked, “Who do you think loans him those records he likes to flash around?”

Ivan was at a loss of words, but a quick smile bounced him right back. He had a word for Paul from a friend of his. “It’s for a band.”

“Paul’s out right now, Ivan.”

“Could you tell him the news?”

“That he stops wearing a quiff? Because Uncle Jim and I have told him that and he won’t listen to us.”

“No,” he laughed, “I mean to say, he’s in the band. The Quarrymen. They want to know if he can start practicing for an upcoming gig.”

“Aye, I’ll tell him when he gets home, Ivan.” A gig? Oh, Mum had told Uncle Jim Paul was going to be bigger than ol’ Jim Mac last Christmas. She was all smiles and full of encouragement for Paul, whereas Uncle Jim was wary of having a son becoming dedicated to music as a career. Paul and I shared a love of arts and letters, and ideally he would choose this path than to become a doctor. There was no shame in being a teacher, Paul had told me two years back. Now, he reasoned, there was no shame in being a musician. He’d beg for records every letter he sent, anything from rockabilly to rock n roll—he didn’t care, all he wanted was something to emulate.

When Uncle Jim called to put his foot down about the vast volume of records Paul was receiving, Dad explained he had managed to get Paul a full year’s subscription for records, a new pilot program for youths to spend their money on records. There was nothing to worry about, Dad confirmed, his mouth twitching in amusement as he found himself covering for Mum yet again, it was all paid for as his birthday and Christmas gift. (What Uncle Jim didn’t know was that we planned to give Paul some money to buy a better guitar!)

It was only fitting for Mum to encourage Paul to become a musician. In the biggest McCartney family scandal of this century, she ran off to London to become a singer. Uncle Jim had been furious—she had just finished her studies in general education, and had a chance to study English at the local university—and nearly went down to London to drag her back home. Perhaps Uncle Jim was scared of all the attention Mum gave Paul. He didn’t want Paul to run off and make a fool of himself. Mum held up the appearance her planned decision was, in fact, rash. You could never get a straight answer out of her. One minute she’d praise your talents, the next minute she’d bark at you to apply yourself. But with Paul, especially now that Aunt Mary had passed, Mum remained a fervent advocate for his talent as a musician. “Oh, Jim, he’s even better than you were at 25,” Mum would tease. Uncle Jim could only huff and change the subject to his garden.

“D’you think your mum has a point,” he had asked before we left for London. I didn’t know how to respond then. Six months later, I still didn’t know how to respond. He already had a few songs written when I arrived a few days ago. He played them for me—trite, tender songs, the kind a young boy like Paul would write. But a sadness in his words reminded me Paul had grown old before his time. I could only offer suggestions on the lyrics—I wasn’t adept to music like Paul, who could listen by ear, and I wasn’t fond of the limelight that came with singing. For Paul, already on edge about showing me what little he had, it was enough.

///

“They want me? What did he say exactly?”

I rolled my eyes, “He said they wanted you for some band.”

“Who? Who wanted me?”

“I don’t know, some fellow? Besides the name is silly enough—The Quarrymen. It sounds…rough to the ear, Paul.”

“Who cares about the name, Kathy,” he chided. “This is the stuff of legend!”

“It’s a band full of adolescents.”

Paul ignored my comment. “Christ, you should have seen them play. The lead singer was drunk out of his mind, and he still managed to make up the words to a song he couldn’t remember!”

“I didn’t know the bar was set so low for youth performers,” I replied coolly. Paul’s annoyed huff said it all—I just didn’t understand.

I didn’t understand. I’d seen my fair share of artists at Dad’s holiday parties, and the drunks were usually the worst. How could I explain to Paul a drunk artist never took their work seriously? No one wants a public relations disaster on their hands. But yet, record companies insisted to take them on, at least to shake what little money they could make before the artist went downhill. Many of the year’s hitmakers were old news as the excesses of fame kept them well insulated from their surroundings. When the money dried up they were often shocked to see no one wanted their talents anymore. Many of them played the same role year after year—young artist discovered, given a formulaic summer hit, spends all his time touring to the point of exhaustion and retires back to their small town.

But the chances of Paul making it big with this band, or any band at his age, was small.

///

Sitting on Paul’s handlebars had been fun when the risk of tumbling and splitting one’s head open was likely, but now that I was older it had lost its appeal. I could no longer dare Paul to go faster, because even he was scared of the fury our family would unleash on him.

Paul had made me tumble once—we were nine and he had braked suddenly. We somehow managed to charm ourselves out of trouble, but just barely. Enough tears were shed to convince Dad it had been a harmless accident, but we weren’t allowed to ride the bike for the rest of the holidays. Aunt Mary had him punished with no dessert. I spent my allowance to buy him a pack of chocolates before the holidays were over, and hid it under his bed so Aunt Mary wouldn’t find out he had found a way to subvert his punishment.

Now that we were older—and Uncle Jim threatening Paul with a grounding if I had so much as a scratch—we didn’t play dares like that anymore. The adults thought we were responsible for our own actions, and the punishments would reflect that now. Once Mum had me smoke an entire pack of cigarettes after I was caught smoking by one of the teachers. I’d thrown up all over the backyard, and her only response was to bring me a bucket to clean up my mess. Charming our way out of messes were no longer a possibility at our age.

But as age proved our downfall in childhood antics, it brought a new world to test it out—the opposite sex. Paul had recounted countless times the girls who flirted back with him, even one who dared to kiss him without the aid of a dare. His ego, already inflated with the coos and ahhs of our aunts since infancy, had gradually increased with the attention all the girls were giving him. It was difficult not to ask if he had a steady girlfriend. After Bill I wondered if my experience was any similar to his.

“After Ivan’s, do you want to go to Penny Lane and get a lolly ice?”

“Yes.” It was hot, and Uncle Jim had been in a good mood to give us a few pounds to spend together.

Ivan lived in the better part of Liverpool, in which he didn’t live in Liverpool at all. He lived in a sleepy neighborhood, Woolton. The further out of Liverpool you were, the more proper the spoken English language became. He had won a spot at the boys school like Paul, and became good friends when it was discovered they were born on the same day. He was a gangly fellow, with a grin on his face and eager to crack a joke. He had always taken a shine to me, but I wasn’t interested due to my relationship with Bill. I hadn’t an excuse to refute any advances made now. I had pegged Ivan as just a friend of Paul’s, possibly even a friend of mine, but I couldn’t see any further developments than that.

Paul leaned the hand-me-down bicycle Uncle Jim gifted him against the brick fence. “Did you have to wear those?”

I raised a brow. “Wear what?”

“You know…” He jerked his head towards the powder blue pants I had on. Not really pants, but not really shorts, they were those new bermuda shorts making the rounds in leisurewear. “Those.”

I extended my leg as if I was one of the dancers in a Degas painting, bowing ever so slightly. Paul rolled his eyes, exasperated by my antics. “You mean my pants?” He started walking up the path in an attempt to get rid of me.

“I’m kidding! You know I’m just teasing, Paul.”

But our kid wasn’t having it. His face, usually a ruddy mess around the cheeks, had been drained of all color. Was meeting this lad that serious? “You can’t embarrass me, alright?”

I laughed at his absurd request, “You must be joking, Paul.”

“Just don’t sound so posh,” he muttered, quickly knocking the front door. I managed to close my gaping mouth, too stunned to listen to what Mrs. Vaughn was saying. The boys were right outside, she said, she’d tell Ivan right away.

It was the first time Paul admitted I was posh. Didn’t he remember I was a Mersey girl? All the slang I had picked up from him and the McCartney clan had no use in the City of Westminster, but still it stubbornly refused to fade away. The thick accent I developed as a child still crept back up after years of being taught to properly speak the Queen’s English. Mortifying sessions with a spinster who would keep me from enjoying my lunch break. Hadn’t I cried to him the first winter I arrived back from London? The taunts from the children, the disdainful looks from the mothers.

Now suddenly I was too posh.

Mrs. Vaughn led me to the kitchen as Paul left for the backyard. She was making sandwiches for the boys, a habit for tea time. Would I like to help? How was school? Where did I plan to go after my A-levels? I don’t remember half of what I said as I sliced the cucumber methodically. Something about King’s College--which was the plan--and something about planning for a degree in English. All I could think about was Paul’s comment.

The loud guffaws that accompany boys up to no good filled the hallway. Mrs. Vaughn already had the tea sitting in the next room. All that was missing were the sandwiches and biscuits. Would I mind while she cleaned up?

Years of helping Mum with company parties held in our home came in handy in moments like these. Being able to balance trays of foods and drinks was second nature to me. It caused quite a stir when I went to school with arms overflowing with materials. How could my delicate frame sustain the weight of tomes? It was a mystery to the teachers. Going to lecture in the fall was going to be quite the challenge if I kept up with the habit.

Ivan and two other boys were in the sitting room. It was Ivan and a pale, ruddy cheeked lad in one settee. Paul sat in a cushioned chair closest to the fireplace. He didn’t seem to recognize my presence, preferring to put on an air of nonchalance. One of them had to be the fabled lead singer Paul oh-so fawned over. It couldn’t have been the blonde; he was seemed cocky, but he didn’t seem like he could pull people under a spell. At least, not for our kid. At a quick glance he didn’t exude the charm for such an undertaking. No, he was more of a follower.

“Ivan, I’m surprised you didn’t tell us about the bird!”

Bird? My head swiveled over to the direction the voice came from. Ah.

“Shove off, John,” Ivan shot back, taking the tray away from me.

John, was it? He winked at me. This was the face who stole Paul’s attention: a snarling smile paired with a hook nose, with a slicked version of a quiff that was held together by cheap smelling pomade. He was trying too hard to be a Teddy Boy. I stared intently into the crescent eyes looking defiantly back at me.

“You might want to keep ‘er locked up, Ivy,” the blonde one observed.

I grabbed a biscuit from the tray. Still warm in my hand, I bit down, contemplating the scene before me. Was this really my competition? “You’re quite posh for someone who sang at a fete drunk.” John’s face broke sightly. He didn’t let on he was taken aback by my response, save for his smile disappearing. Paul made no indication of his displeasure lest John figure out I was related to him. Let Ivan get all the slack. I raised an eyebrow at Paul before walking back to the kitchen. Too posh, hah! Posh wasn’t half of the story.

The meeting seemed to go on forever, nearly an hour. There was only so much I could tell Mrs. Vaughn about my education and plans for the near future. Ivan was set to graduate with high enough marks to get into a classics program, and the younger children were set to enter the next phase of their education. Had I any suggestions for the A-Levels? I gave her a few, a couple of suggestions from previous girls who took the same exams I had. Never assume you’re going to do well, never slack off, always write dryly in the essay portion. Men were grading us. No need to explain in case they thought our point was dragging out.

Soon, I could hear Paul call for me from the front door. As Mrs. Vaughn and I exchanged our goodbyes on our way to the door, Paul was chatting to the John boy. John had a few good inches to his advantage given Paul was due for another growth spurt soon. Paul jutted his chin out as he walked down the steps to get the bicycle. I thanked Ivan for having us over, coolly ignoring the peering leers from John and the blonde boy, and made my way over to Paul.

As we pedaled away, I sat on the handlebars in silence. Paul was busy chattering away about the success the meeting had been. He was going to play guitar and maybe even sing lead, but mostly just stick to backing vocals. I nodded along to pretend I was listening. Perhaps Paul and I were destined to drift apart given our distance and genders. We were both entering the time of our lives where differences in upbringing and environment were starting to make an impact. We were aware of how different our families were. Uncle Jim and Aunt Mary were intent on getting the boys to the best schools possible, with the dream of Paul attending medical school. Mum and Dad were keen to encourage me to pursue an education, be what it may. There was no pressure to become a doctor or a nurse or a teacher. Mum and Dad would quietly support me in any way as long as I followed my instincts.

“John looked mortified when you said he was posh,” Paul chuckled, unwrapping the ice lolly under the tree we were lounging under. “Almost looked like he was surprised anyone would so blatantly stand up to him.”

I let out a chuckle. “Did he know we were cousins?”

“He did when I called you. He asked, ‘That bird’s yours?’ And I said coolly, ‘She’s my cousin.’ And he simply nodded and gave me one of those smirks he’s always on about. Ivy says he likes it when people stand up to him.”

I bit down on the ice lolly. Standing up to my rival wasn’t on my to-do list on this trip, but then again I wasn’t expecting to have a rival. “I suppose you might want to take some notes, Paul.”

He snorted back, “I think I’ve enough practice dealing with you.”

We shoved each other playfully, quick smiles lighting our faces at the childish antics we pulled as cousins and quasi-siblings. Perhaps I had nothing to worry about.


	2. Struck

Joining the Scouts was Aunt Mary’s idea. Uncle Jim went along with the idea, because he liked the idea of having the home to himself again. I could still remember the day we saw him off: Uncle Jim was driving him to the camp where he would be watched over for what seemed like an eternity, but were really the rest of the holidays. Mum and Dad were itching to head to Cornwall, but that meant nothing to a child. Cornwall was nothing but cliffs and sand, of cousins who were older and strangers to the games I was used to playing with Paul. Mike was still there, but he was younger, wasn’t privy to the conversations I could only have with Paul, and was just as upset as I was about losing Paul for a few weeks. It was only a few more years until he could join Scouts. There was no such consolation for me.

I had forgotten how lonely it felt to have neither Paul nor Mike for entertainment. We started to leave the week before the annual holiday started. Mum and Dad could never spend much time in Liverpool. Youth offered me a protective shield from the frustration my parents felt in Liverpool. Children dismiss their parent’s discomfort easily. I struggled to understand why we never spent more time with the only family I had ever known.

But now that I was older, and as old as my mother was when she started planning her escape, I could understand why she regretted her visits by the third day.

“Our Florrie was a sight to behold,” Aunt Edith disclosed over Sunday dinner. “You’d never see her with a curl out of place or a torn hem.”

Aunt Jin chuckled, “You talk as if she was finicky, Edith.”

“Mum was always overwhelmed about her tastes.” Aunt Edith shoots a glance at me. She isn’t a fan of Mum’s supposed spendthrift habits. Mum never wore anything from the New Look. In fact, I don’t think she’d ever bought anything until it was on sale.

“Mum has recently taken to teaching me how to re-hem my skirts.”

“I’m glad she’s started to mature.” Aunt Edith was not Mum’s favorite sister.

Aunt Millie huffed, “Oh, Edith, Florrie’s always been quick with a sewing machine. Remember that lovely powder blue dress she wore to Jim’s wedding? She made that dress shine after she used Jin’s sewing machine.”

“She was always _too_ fond of those Hollywood starlet looks.”

“She did your hair for the wedding based on those starlet looks, Edith, and I do recall Albert was quite besotted with the curls.”

Uncle Jim, patriarch of these Sunday dinners, simply shook his head as Edith began squabbling over old wounds with Mille and Jin. I bit back a smirk at the sight of older siblings fighting about the antics of the youngest. Mum often ignored Edith’s needling on her brief visits over the holidays. Dad was more likely to defend her honor than she was.

_“Why do you let Edith talk nonsense,”_ Dad asked one evening, years after we had moved to London and settled.

Mum never said a word. She didn’t understand the need to explain: siblings were expected to needle each other, and letting them know you were feeling the pressure was a sign of weakness. Dad was simply unaccustomed to jabs and teases from siblings. The only son in a family where broods were no smaller than five, he lived a life of privilege. Watching the two together was always fascinating. Whereas Dad was hot tempered when he was ribbed too far, Mum was quick to smooth out any misunderstandings with a pert smile and a laugh.

I leaned over to Uncle Jim, “Have they always fought like this?”

He laughed, shaking his head like he does when Paul and Mike are teasing each other, “When your Mum was your age, Edith was busy with her own brood. It didn’t start until your Mum left for London.”

“That old tale,” I sighed, watching Aunt Jin excuse herself to get the dessert from the freezer. Although alluded to so often when the conversation turned to Mum, it was a story I was allowed to know one night when Dad was tipsy. Despite her status as the baby of the McCartney clan, Florence Elizabeth McCartney was a volatile character for her older siblings. Aunt Edith had a hard time restraining her by the time she was becoming a women (as they said in those days). Uncle Joe didn’t know what to make of her except to bring down curfews. Only Uncle Jim knew how to get to her, given their closeness. It was forged the way most bonds for life are formed--over tears. Uncle Jim was the only sibling who was always able to calm her down. And like a moth to a flame, Mum followed Uncle Jim everywhere.

As the youngest she was given more liberties than her older sisters. She finished her education. She worked a part-time job as a grocer’s helper on the weekend. She was cosmopolitan in a city that seemed to be stuck in the Victorian era. She kept up with the royal news, the goings on in London, the fashion of the time. It drove Aunt Edith mad. She was trying to get Mum to settle down, given that Gran and Grandad were getting older. It was up to Mum, Aunt Edith decided, to take care of their parents. It wasn’t a decision that all siblings agreed on. Uncle Jim wanted them to stay put, that with 10 siblings it was better to divide the responsibilities.

No one ever spoke of the night Mum left. I overheard relatives talk of a birthday party for Uncle Jim as the night she left. Aunt Edith maintains Mum must have done something to leave so suddenly. There were certainly enough rumors to suggest something had happened. There was always someone from Mum’s old life who was dying to know the truth. _Did you really run off with a married man? Is it true you became a crooner’s mistress down in London? Had it been your picture that was on one of the gossip columns before the war?_ All Mum could do was force herself to laugh, and quickly charm the questioner before they pried too much.

///

Uncle Jim nearly spilled his tea on his neatly ironed shirt when I suggested I visiting Ivan. Perhaps he thought I would be his constant shadow while the boys were off for their annual holiday.

“How do you plan to go?”

“On the bus, of course.”

“Do you know the route?”

Of course he knew I knew. Paul and I had ridden the bus enough times over the years to get to any part of the Mersey we wanted. “If I get lost, I could just ask the bus driver.”

He didn’t say anything for the next hour. Maybe it was too soon to suggest leaving the home.

Helen, in her comfortable life, was surprised to know I rode the public transit system. “Don’t you order a cab when you go anywhere?” It never occurred to her to get on a bus. A cab afforded privacy, comfort, the kind of luxury the monied can indulge in. Cabs were nothing more than a frivolity. On the bus I could, at least, see the various colors and characters of my section of London. It made the commute to school tolerable. The times we ordered cabs were for the end-of-year parties at Dad’s job. Mum and I would tuck Dad off in a cab, sloshed out of his mind, while we took his car home. It saved Mum the cost of having the car detailed during the holidays.

It wasn’t until dinnertime, hours later, when he announced his decision. “I expect you to be back before dinner.”

“I’ll probably be back _before_ dinner.”

“I’ll give you enough for the bus fare.” Had Uncle Jim forgot Mum and Dad gave me enough money to spend? I could surely afford the fare and then some. I set the bowls down on their placemats. I remembered when Uncle Jim bought these bowls. They were a housewarming gift for Aunt Mary, when they moved into this council home. He had Mum give her approval on them.

“If you know you’ll be late, remember to call the house so I at least know you’re alive.” He had his back towards me, stirring the stew that would be our dinner for tonight and tomorrow.

“Of course I’ll call, Uncle Jim.”

///

Seeing the face of Paul’s cousin took John by surprise. Wasn’t she supposed to be in Allerton? What business had she here in Woolton? She walked briskly down the sleepy street of Menlove. He watched her turn the corner, over by where Ivan’s house was. _Ah._ Perhaps she _was_ Ivy’s girl after all.

He hadn’t thought of her since that day at Ivy’s. She hadn’t given him a second look while she waited for Paul to get the bike ready. John couldn’t understand why she was there in the first place. Did Paul seek her approval? He didn’t seem like the type to seek validation from people. Maybe he couldn’t get rid of her. It happened to him all the time when Julia and Jacqui wanted to spend all day with him.

He could hear Mimi in the kitchen, setting the kettle for that afternoon’s tea. She was quieter than his mum, he could confirm. The radio would be on, playing the latest hit, as she absently prepared lunch for the girls. Everything she did was done with a whim. Mimi was more deliberate in her actions. Nothing was without meaning for her. Growing up, he wondered how someone as deliberate as Mimi could ever marry the whimsical George Smith. Perhaps all the Stanley girls held some whimsy, he reasoned. It was just Mimi who was gifted with less. She always touted that as a virtue, and one he should try to emulate. When his Mum had given him his first, proper guitar, she had made the comment he would need to find a more stable career. She still held on to hope he could enter university, become a doctor, become _respected_.

She was the most upset he’d ever seen her when the headmaster told her he wouldn’t get into the local university, or any university for that matter, because of his abysmal O-Levels. He’d never seen her so close to tears. But she remained firm in her conviction: _John will go to_ a _university_. The headmaster was so worn down by her insistence he called in a favor to the art school. By the time they left, he was slated to report to the art school, portfolio in hand, to undergo a review of his work for admission. She didn’t speak to him until the day of review, when she told him to tuck in his shirt. It was the longest she had gone without talking to him.

Since his acceptance, Mimi wouldn’t stop talking to him, asking him questions he didn’t know the answers to. He _had_ answers, but it’s not like she would find it an acceptable answer. He couldn’t very well tell her he had trouble focusing on assignments. That would only mean he was lazy, or worse--distracted by Barbara. She’d already tried to separate them by enlisting Barbara’s parents. It wasn’t the first time she had tried to meddle in his life, and he reasoned it wasn’t the last, so why worry about this latest attempt to remove him from the gorgeous girlfriend he had.

John grabbed his knapsack. He decided he would spend the night at his mum’s place. He hadn’t left Mendips since he was in trouble. Besides, he left his guitar with his mum for safekeeping. So far, Mimi hadn’t blamed the guitar for his failures, and he was determined to keep it that way. He grabbed a few shirts, his journal, a few magazines he’d yet to read. Yes, a trip to his mum’s might be what he needed.

He shouted a brief goodbye to Mimi and left out the door before she could respond. He walked his bicycle to the front of the gate. In the corner of his eye he saw the familiar floppy hat that had bobbed down the street an hour earlier. She was looking ahead, determined look in her eyes. She hadn’t even noticed him. Or maybe she did and refused to acknowledge him? Did she always look so aloof?

“Miss McCartney.” He hadn’t planned on saying anything to her. But there he was, bicycle in hand, leaning on the brick fence of Mendips. She turned to look at him. The first thing that struck him, he would remember later that night, was the crisp, hazel color in her eyes.

“You’re Ivan’s friend, aren’t you?” She stood close to him.

He grinned. “You _do_ remember me.”

“It’s not every day you meet Scouser impersonators.” She looked at the front of Mendips, cocking her head slightly. “You live here?”

John coughed. “It’s my aunt’s house. I’m headed to my mum’s right now.”

“Oh,” she replied, turning to look at him again. He got a look at her. She was more slender than he remembered. She was dressed smart: matching gloves with her ironed dress, classic black patent shoes he was sure Mimi owned. She was looking at him curiously. Was that a smile on her face? Or was she just being polite? “I wouldn’t want to keep your mum waiting. Lovely to see you again.” And off she went, brisk pace taking her to Allerton. John watched her turn the corner before he went off the long way route.


End file.
